


make your blood run cold

by athenasdragon



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Allusion to Canon Character Death], Canon Compliant, Fever, Gen, Illnesses, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: Fitzjames hates the cold--until his fever sets in, at which point cold seems like a favorable alternative.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	make your blood run cold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Terrortober 2020 on Tumblr. Day 26: Cold
> 
> This was partially inspired by the poem "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert W. Service, which I highly recommend if you're a fan of Arctic disaster and madness. The title is from the recurring verse at the beginning and end of the poem.

James hates the cold. It makes it impossible for his mind to wander somewhere else. Sometimes, when he is alone in the great cabin, he can close his eyes and almost slip back to England and a roaring fire--but then the cold prickles at the back of his neck and he slams back to his hands and knees next to that accursed blood-streaked hole in the ice, so he’s stopped trying so often. The return to reality is worse than the escape is worth.

He resents Francis at first for seeming not to feel it. Arctic experience be damned--the man can wander the pack like he’s wandering a garden and show no sign of discomfort even as James pulls his cowl over his face to dull the ache in his freezing nose. Even when James has grown to appreciate the experience and resilience Francis represents, he would never dream of admitting that his fingers and toes go white after just a few minutes on deck. It’s embarrassing.

Of course, Francis notices eventually. They’ve taken to eating dinner together every few nights to discuss operations. James appreciates the company more than he thought he could, but on his nights to make the trek to the _Terror_ , the walk takes its toll.

He has been eating slowly, letting each hot bite take the edge off the chill from the walk over, when he realizes Francis has been watching him.

“Do you have a problem with Jopson’s cooking?”

“Hm?” James sets down his knife and fork, realizing for the first time that he has been staring blankly somewhere beyond his plate.

Francis angles his head in that way that suggests James should already know exactly what he’s talking about. “You’re picking at your food. You eat well enough aboard _Erebus_.”

“Just warming up from the walk.” He swallows the bite he has been savoring and makes a point of choosing a large piece as he changes the subject. He knows Francis will be watching him closer now.

* * *

James misses the cold. He’s been burning for weeks now, getting warmer every day. The pain is awful, yes--it shoots through him with every step--but the heat is with him every moment, squeezing his chest and making his head spin. His only moments of relief are when he stops to tear off his hat and scarf and the wind runs over his neck and scalp like cool fingers. Even so, it lasts only a second. The furnace within him can overpower the chill without.

The others pity him and he despises it. Their eyes follow him when he winces as he stands after a meeting, when he limps into his tent. They don’t know he could melt them, he thinks. That he could swing wide the twin doors of his ribcage to release the scorching sun within him until they sweat out poisonous lead in rivulets. That he could sink to his knees on the pack and keep going, sizzling and cracking the ice as he plummeted down, and when he hit the sea it would boil around him too.

Tempting as it is to strip off his coat and lie against the biting-cold rocks until every bit of heat drains from him at last, he knows better. He covers his ears and fingers, he wears his hat to block the sun. Protocols that have become automatic save him, and he keeps marching with the men.

* * *

James knows what is coming. He comes back to himself in the tent like floating slowly to the surface of still water, Francis’s face coming into focus beside him and low concerned murmuring in the background. His eyes hurt, his bones hurt, each breath aches, and--he’s cold.

He flexes his fingers and feels the numbness more than the pain. He’s done burning. Not long now.

“James? How are you feeling?”

James smiles in spite of himself--in spite of the pain it causes. “Cold.”


End file.
